Teacher is the Taught.

The Love of my Life, Richard Wayne Walker.

“It isn’t right. It just isn’t right.” I wheeled myself around the condo, sobbing and protesting my loss.

As I look around the room, you are likely saying the same thing. This is a celebration he would have loved; in a slightly shy, humble manner saying. “This is too much, you are making a fuss.” However, he would be savoring every moment.

Rick Walker, from Sherwood Park appeared as Oldtwinkle51 on a dating app. Someone suggested that he could meet some nice ladies with whom he could have coffee, maybe go to a few shows or concerts.

My one-month membership was about to run out. I had one day off of work and not sure if driving an hour and a half into Sherwood Park would be worth it, but something in his look in his photo reminded me of my Dad (I found out later that he didn’t know how to post the photo with the correct ratio, so it was wider than it should have been).

As many of you may know, he stood me up. I texted him, “I am here.”

 He replied “Where?”

“At Tim Horton’s to meet you for coffee.”

“Oh, we are meeting tomorrow.”

As it was, he was not prepared for a date— he was in a 4-level split home, on crutches after shattering his hip on third base the month before. There was no way for him to quickly shower, shave and find a ride. He had no idea that I had driven an hour and a half for one cup of coffee.

“Don’t worry, it is the perils of senior dating. I am off till to turn 60 with Disneyland with my daughter and granddaughters.”

When I arrived home, I let him know that I was back, safe and sound.

We had our first conversation on the telephone. I loved his voice. We decided to meet in Camrose for coffee on Thursday, Sept 1, 2016.

Coffee turned into a dinner when I revealed I lived in Viking. He said, “Please let me buy you dinner, no strings attached.” He felt so bad I drove an hour and a half to be stood up. From 2:00 to 8:30 we talked with each other, comfortably asking questions.

Many of you have said there was a connection instantly when you met Rick. Someone said a Cosmic Connection. It is true.

My family adored him. Even though I was a bit clumsy with the introduction: I told my daughters I was seeing someone, quite amazing.

“He has been out of rehab a couple months.”

The trio yelled “Rehab!?”

“Physiotherapy rehab, he broke his hip in June.”

“How old is this guy?”, asked the middle child.

Most people have a resting bitch face. Rick had a permanent happy face. No one else has that full face smile. He radiated something very positive that moved people.

For the past nine and a half years, I have been loved, cherished, and most of all free to live out my dreams. I did not make myself smaller to fit into a box of his expectations.

A friend told me she was finished dating at this age. She said, “I just can’t adapt anymore.”

Adapt! That’s the word. I did not have to adapt one bit to be with Rick.

He literally is the wind beneath my wings. He saw the passion in me before I even noticed it. The writing, the comedy, the art, the facilitating bereavement, grief and mourning seminars. He believed in me, more than I believed in myself. He didn’t control me or manipulate me, he was my greatest fan, agent and promoter. Humbly describing himself as the stool carrier.

I know many of you didn’t have the usual connection with Rick the last few years. What you did not know was the incredible amount of pain he suffered silently. He had chronic bone infection in his foot to the point that he had a toe removed a year ago and then the rest of that bone amputated last November. He joked, “I am going in a ten and coming out a nine.” This condition impacted his overall well-being. He knew what he was missing and was almost holding his breath waiting for things to get better—every new treatment, doctor or surgery was bringing him closer to healing. He had to stay off his feet. No more cruising, mall walking, shopping, car shows—very few lunches out. Rick never complained.

Never a whiner, he frustratedly followed doctors orders, “Stay off your feet, until…”

I would ask him, “How is your pain?”

“It only hurts when I walk.”

He still maintained his daily ritual: up, shower, eat breakfast, read the Journal—especially the obituaries (counting how many were younger than him) and often reading of acquaintances, clients or relatives of people he knew who had died.

After our cribbage game (mostly he won) he got dressed in time to go to his favorite Starbucks drive-thru to get the dark roast coffee before they stopped brewing it at 11:00 a.m.

Before he could finish his order they often said, “Hi Rick!” He joked with them at the window. Sipping his coffee, he drove in and around car dealer lots, counting the inventory, lusting over the trucks. He wanted a small truck, but that damn Infinity kept going, he almost made it to 400,000 kms.

There were times I would join him. We drove around neighbourhoods of his youth. He joked, “I never made it very far in life.” The Lavoro Group Offices were blocks from his original home. I once recorded him telling stories, pointing out who lived where, and how wonderful the parents of those ‘kids’ were. He was an encyclopedia of Edmonton street history. I have heard many stories of most of you here. It is amazing any of you guys made it past 25!

He was finally feeling better in the last few months; we had an amazing last Christmas with our families. He even took me to a stage show based on the Vinyl Café—something he knew little about.

He mentioned cruising again, looking at the tours for the older adult and dreamt of where to go next. He told me that in the new year, he needed to call so and so to set up lunch. He was on his way back to socializing because every meal or coffee shared with long-time friends meant   plenty of laughs. Won’t we all miss his laughter?

This week, I went through Starbucks, ordering exactly as he had for years: “Hello, I would like a tall, dark roast with a splash of two percent.”

They shed tears on news of his death, “We were just talking about him.”

A true Gentle Man. Always polite, considerate and kind. Generous, but never taken advantage of. The fiercest emotional expression was his terseness. If you were a banker, telephone company representative or car dealership he set you straight. Calmly, tenaciously and logically.

I pitied the time share presenters the most. Never to turn down an opportunity to garner a free train ride or dinner and a complimentary room, he enjoyed the process. One woman in Hawaii said, “I think if I offered you this at no cost, you would still turn me down.”

“Try me,” he replied.

Everytime, I sat there, I was a bundle of nerves, as they called over every level of management until they finally gave us the ‘gift’ for sitting through the presentation.

Many stories will be shared today. I ask that you keep sharing them. Please say his name. Rick Walker, Thunder. Don’t be afraid you will make someone cry, we are doing that already. Grieve—embrace the inner sadness of his death. Mourn—take that internal sadness public. Talk it through rather than avoid the discomfort of others.

We are all bereaved — we lost someone precious. He was ripped from our hands, against our will—breaking our individual hearts. We are left without the ability to turn back time. Powerless.

Please use your time to honour people. To be patient, kind and understanding of others.

He will continue to be my muse, my inspiration and my forever love.

A necklace he bought me for our third Christmas states:

If it hurts too much to look back,

But you’re too scared to look ahead,

Just look beside you

And, I’ll be there.

I am mourning out loud. No apologies for sharing my love, loss and laughter for being loved so completely by Rick Walker.

Laura and Teri. Evan and Emily. You are his legacy. Hannah, Rob, Tom, Dawn, Shannon and Danny, Erica and their children loved Rick, the unflappable. He knew when to turn down his hearing aids during those family gatherings.

He died with dignity as Laura, Teri, Tom, Emily, Evan and my daughter Shannon bore witness to his last breath.

 I will use a quote from a dear friend when she heard of Rick’s death:

“My deepest condolences. Each one of you are the bravest, most selfless and strongest women for the better good of the one you loved so deeply. I bow my head to all of you.”

Teri and Laura, you have his character and personality—patience, wisdom and kindness.

You have the attention to detail and always bring joy to the room—as you have today. The tribute to your Dad, carefully planned, curated to celebrate the passion he lived and the ambience to embrace his friends with love—this is quite ‘adequate’ (as he would tease).